From What Comes After
by national city
Summary: Luka/Abby. AU or something? I guess I must have started this before we saw where some integral plot point ended up going. It's been so long since I updated; I really don't have a clue at this point. Bear with me.
1. Chicago

The rain-drenched pavement stretched out ahead as far as she could see, for what seemed like miles. It was a sticky heat. Almost stifling, a mix of steam as the rain fell onto hot asphalt and the caustic odour of stagnant air from the sewer drains rising up through the metal grates. The muted glow of daylight over the skyline would soon burn out completely, and it was that simple thought which made the city all the more daunting. Walking away from the steps of the train platform, Abby Lockhart negotiated the cramped sidewalks, unmanicured nails tapping against the handle of her umbrella as she grasped it tightly in one hand, a cigarette dangling precariously between two fingers of the other. She felt positively sick at the thought of going back to their apartment- or, more accurately, his apartment- the place where she had so longed to be before she had finally returned to Chicago. It wouldn't be the same anymore. It hadn't been in the weeks before she'd left. For each good memory, another had come along to replace it. Another less welcome, less desirable, less possible to face. Another fight. Maybe she wouldn't have to face it anyway. Maybe he wasn't even there. She had lost, she had left, and she had never looked back. Tried not to. It was all beyond repair by then. It was that simple. And at first, she hadn't given him a second thought. Neither of them. Or, at least, she hadn't admitted it. She never would. Dropping the cigarette, she stomped out the embers with the heel of her black pumps and slowly lifted her gaze from the fixed point on the ground in front of her.

The rain had subsided, the umbrella no longer serving any purpose- she didn't want it anymore, didn't need it. Simply folding it shut, she took the few steps over to drop it into the nearest bin along the way. It had felt too awkward and unwieldy in her small hand. Too heavy. Too much. Everything else seemed to be that day. But nothing else had allowed for the quick resolution of simply being discarded and forgotten. How long had she been standing there? Dead batteries- she didn't need the watch, either, and shoved it down into the first available pocket of her purse before lighting another cigarette and continuing down the street, replaying over and over again the events which had unfolded months before. The worst part was how he had known that she had faltered. Or as she had always put it, fucked up. Completely. It took everything she had to try and keep him from finding out, and in the end, she couldn't. He had always known her, always been able to read her and see past the walls she had built up, and she had always hated him for it, if only secretly. The lies had been new, though. Different. Unexpected. He hadn't been prepared for that. Just like she hadn't been prepared to lose her son. She should have told him, should have been honest, should have been there for him the way he was trying to be there for her. She should have stayed. Would they have even bothered, even pursued what they had ended once before, if they had known how it would end? Would she have even been strong enough? It was too late to wonder, but she did it anyway.

As she stood there alone on the corner, coming to the realisation that she would walk down the dark street to an empty hotel room, she pressed her palms against her face, believing momentarily that she could keep the tears from coming by doing so. She didn't. Maybe she couldn't, didn't really want to. But it didn't even matter, because by then it was impossible. They could have been together always, they could have been happy. They had been happy. She had ruined it. It was over.

One step. Two, three, four. At ten, she lost count, not at all distracted by it anyhow.


	2. Thirty Minutes

"Could you possibly be any later? I had to pick up two of Pratt's cases so he could leave and one of them needs a differential."

With her labcoat hanging over her arm, Kerry Weaver approached the admit desk and shot a glance towards the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes late. He never would have been angry about thirty minutes before. No, he had been the one to walk in late plenty of times in the past. Thirty minutes. An hour. Half a shift. Sometimes he hadn't even bothered to show up at all. That, as anyone in the ER could have attested to, had been over for ages. It was his turn to make a big deal out of thirty minutes. He had paid his dues; worked the overnights, the split shifts, the doubles. Each rite of passage had come and gone years before, and it had taken him all of that time afterwards to settle into the idea of being an attending, all until his position as chief in the ER. He never did show it. Still, he had never bothered to care much about two extra patients at the end of a shift, not before. Two was better than ten, was better than a full waiting room, better than getting stuck there for hours, and that meant it was a good day at work. That kind of optimism just wasn't there anymore. He seemed fairly well-adjusted. Seemed to have dealt with everything that had happened in a far less destructive manner than she had seen him deal with things in the past. Seemed happy, even. Something was still missing, though. Something had changed him. Changed inside of him. Contemplating it for a moment as she looked over at him, standing at the board and scrawling out his name in a blank slot, Kerry decided that she knew what it was. Abby was gone. Nothing was the same for him anymore. But he had moved on as best as he could, and he didn't want sympathy. He never wanted it from her, or anyone else. She knew that.

"Sandy's parents are out of town and the babysitter was late." she explained as she pulled on her labcoat. "You don't want to get snappy with me, Dr. Kovac, I'm having the weekend from hell."

"Well, that's not so bad, if you think about it. The day is only going to get worse." he said. A slight smile- at least his sense of humor was never lost. "Clean labcoat- you won't get through half an hour before someone throws up all over it."

"Don't remind me. Give me the rundown on the two you've got, I'll take them so you can get out of here. I don't want to hear you complaining about this later."

"Curtain one is Evelyn Sanders. Nausea, vomiting, she's got some distention. Looks like food poisoning, ultrasound was negative. It's been three hours and her labs aren't back yet, if you can believe that." he said, handing her the charts. "EMTs brought in the guy sitting in curtain three, auto versus pedestrian, the only problem is that the car wasn't moving. Don't ask, I have no idea. His neuro exam was clear but he's altered, so, waiting on Psych."

"Sounds like I got here just in time." she spoke rather unenthusiastically, flipped the pages. Silence between them. She looked up at him. Concern? No. Too close to sympathy. "So how long is this sabbatical of yours going to last, Kovac?"

"It's not a sabbatical, it's just two months. I probably won't even stay gone that long." He shrugged indifferently. Crossed his arms, looked down for a moment. "This place can drive you crazy. I haven't really taken a break in a long time."

"Well, I expect to see you back here in sixty days or less. We can't have Morris running this place. Now get out, so the rest of us can get to work."

"You never change, do you? I'll see you, Kerry."

Hurrying down the hall, he let the smile fade from his expression. He was tired of smiling. He was tired. The ER was nothing but too many memories, shoved into a tiny corner of the hospital. It was easy enough not to think of it all when he was away, but they were everywhere at County and they were suffocating him. Even the things he had once hung onto, when it all started to go downhill; the good memories, the better times he had shared with Abby. How many kisses had he stolen at the chart rack when they thought nobody had been looking? How many times had they snuck off to an empty room for just a minute alone, just a few quiet seconds together, clearing their heads of the mad rush outside the doors? In those moments, he had honestly believed that they had worked past all of the problems that had caused them to fall apart in the first place. Maybe they really had. They weren't prepared, though. They weren't ready for a baby, the NICU, the weeks and days and hours they had counted. The seconds.

He had counted the seconds, sitting there, looking down at his son in the incubator, watching the slow decline as he got sicker, briefly better, only to get sick again. The seconds of the shifts he had taken, until he could be there with Joe; seconds with Abby, barely able to keep telling her that things were going to work out. It had hurt too much knowing the emptiness, the guilt. The ache that would never go away, if they lost their son. It was a feeling too consuming, too plaguing. But at the same time, vacant. Cold. Almost as if, in truth, he had felt nothing at all. At the time, he couldn't decide whether it would be worse for her, never having another chance to have a child, or for him, having lost before. No matter how happy he had been, he could remember it all so vividly if he allowed himself to do so, and he couldn't imagine feeling that way again. He couldn't imagine watching her feel that way. Her. He couldn't stop thinking of her and how he had, for that brief time, felt like things had finally fallen into place.

For a moment or two he stood there in the lounge. Looking around at the chairs, worse for the wear, and the counter top in it's perpetual disarray. It had grown familiar long before, but he wasn't sure that he would miss it when he finally left that place for good. When Abby had left, he had cleaned out her locker. Neela had offered to do it. If he wanted her to, she had said, it would be no problem taking care of it. But he was already there. The only one who knew the combination. It was almost as if she had died. The way everyone apologized, stopped him in the hall to ask how he was doing. Left the room when he walked into the lounge and turned the numbers on the lock. A sweater and a shirt or two. An extra toothbrush, countless papers. He had packed her belongings into a box that had once held suture kits, methodically arranging and folding, carefully placing each item in. The entire time, he told himself that he should just toss it into the trash. But he kept it instead, even as he tried to forget it all. Held onto every last reminder, believing that there was some chance she might be back. Reminders he would grow tired of and pack away into a hallway closet, on a night when he just couldn't sleep. How easy it would have been to do the same with his things. Just pack it all into a box and never look back. Just leave. If she could do it, he certainly could. They both knew that he had always been the stronger one. That was why he didn't. It was why he stayed. And he was fine on most days. He was happy enough on most days. It just wasn't one of them. Pushing his locker shut, he took one more glance around the room before making his way out. Maybe there would be no looking back after all.


	3. Square One

From her shoulder, to the tips of her fingers, there were over forty-five muscles. Abby remembered it from her anatomy courses, studying the deltoids and flexors and abductors. Once in a while, when he would wrap his arms around her and pull her in, she would consider those lessons and think about which muscles it had taken for him to make those movements. It was accidental, involuntary. They had made a joke of it once, when she had inadvertently voiced those thoughts. To her, it was funny to think it was all they were. Everything she loved- him- nothing but tendons, ligaments, fibers. And one day there would be nothing left, he would be gone. Just a body. Eventually, just dust. He had believed in something more than just flesh and blood. Once or twice, they had talked about it. In the NICU she had heard him praying, not understanding a word, but feeling guilty as her anger over the fact that he could take comfort in such a thing grew stronger. It was pointless. The only comfort for her would be to see her son get well. To touch him, hold him. To watch him as he slept, counting each breath by watching his chest rise and fall, not reading the number of respirations from a monitor.

It would take only a few of those forty-something muscles to lift her hand and knock on the door, but none of them seemed to be working at all. The key. She had never given it back, and afterwards, never bothered to take it off of her key chain. It had been forgotten, except for a few fleeting moments right after she had left, when she considered returning. As she stood there at the door, one hand in the pocket of her jacket, she ran her fingertips over the edge of the key, wondering if it would still fit into the lock. No. Any right she had to use it, to walk into that apartment, had been lost long ago. It was his home. They hadn't even spoken in ages. He probably wouldn't even be glad to see her.

It was building up in her, that fear of something she couldn't identify, making her stomach turn and her heart feel like it was twisting into knots. It was the possibility that he would slam the door in her face- she knew it, whether she wanted to admit it or not. It would hurt too much. What had ever come of it, showing up at his door? Him. Their baby. She had been so afraid. Afraid to keep it, afraid of how she would feel if she had given it up. Her choice. Luka had always said that it was her choice, but she knew. It would have been an end for them. They would have tried, and he would have always resented her for it. If she had never knocked, they would never have been together again. Never would have been as happy as they were. Never would have had to go through all of the pain and the fear. The heartache. She questioned if it had been worth it. Finally lifting her hand, she knocked anyway. By the sounds coming from inside the apartment, she knew exactly what he had been doing. Abby had never known anyone that well before him. First, the loud clatter. He had tossed the remote control back onto the coffee table, probably having just flipped through the channels without ever making a decision. The two thumps against the mahogany. He was lying on the couch, and he'd swung his legs over the edge of it, standing, bare feet pressed against the cold hardwood floor. Then the silence. He was walking over to the door. She never could understand how her footsteps had always been so loud yet he, being much taller and much heavier, hardly made a sound. Perhaps it was the shoes, her heels, she thought, but what an inappropriate time to consider things like that. As the silence grew longer, her heart began to pound so quickly that she was convinced she could hear it. Or maybe it had stopped. She couldn't tell. It _had_ stopped. It must have. No. No, a heart didn't just stop beating so suddenly, so inexplicably, she knew that. There was no reason for it to happen to her. Yet a hand shot to her neck, fingers pressed hard against her skin, checking her pulse as if she were one of her patients. As if she could calm it. The door opened, and her hand dropped.

"Luka. Hi."

The words came out slowly. As if she didn't recognize him at first. As if she didn't expect to see him standing there. It was the only thing he could seem to do though, just stand there as if he couldn't move at all. Those weeks and weeks spent wondering, it was all he had wanted. Or so he had thought. To see her, to know that she was okay. To set things right again, the way they used to be. Things could never be that way again and he knew that. It didn't stop him from wishing, at first. Yet there she was at his door, and more than anything else, he wished that she wasn't. It was back, that pain that he thought only one thing would ever cause. At least, he reasoned, it had died down considerably: from the feeling that it might consume him completely, to a dull ache. It was easier that way. She was finally there. The decision was too big. He knew why she was there, what she wanted, but he knew he would ask nevertheless.

"Abby." he finally managed to speak, unaware that his words were barely above a whisper. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood?" she offered tentatively, but shook her head and couldn't help frowning. "That's not funny. I'm sorry. I just, uh, wanted to..."

"Don't. Never mind."

She could hurt him again if he didn't close that door. She always could, and he always let her, the same way that she had always let him. Once, she had mentioned it. Apologized for it, even. _'You're married to a ghost'_. A cheap shot. Thoughtless. They had never been good at thinking things through. That night, he had wanted to go after her. For what, he wasn't quite sure even then, but he was very sure of how hard it had been to watch her walk away. After Neela and Michael's wedding, when he drove her home and cut their talk short in the car, he had promised himself never to lose her again that way. Promised himself that he wouldn't hurt her again. Wouldn't let her hurt him. He had broken those promises. They had broken every single promise they had ever made to each other in all of those years. Perhaps they could set things right. Or perhaps it would just be the same as last time. The same as every time. But it was Abby, and he would always love her. He would always be in love with her, no matter what she did. Didn't do, more accurately. At the end of the day, it was no more or less complicated than that. He couldn't close the door no matter what he told himself. It stood wide open as he made his way back into the living room. An invitation. A mistake? She shut the door behind her, going no further than the few steps down into the living room.

"Luka, if this is a bad time--"

"Is there ever going to be a better one?" he cut her off sharply, unapologetically. Took up the remote and turned off the television. CNN. She had been right. "I didn't ask you to come. But you're here now, we might as well get it over with."

"The place looks good." She couldn't remember what it had looked like before. What a stupid comment. Nothing seemed like the right thing to say. The silence had been too much. "It must be hard to keep up with, on top of everything else."

"Well, some of us learn how to deal with our responsibilities." he quipped. _Cut the shit, Abby. Smalltalk? Honestly?_ He was fed up already. Wanted to tell her to leave already. "We all have our priorities though, I guess."

"Stop it. Just stop, Luka, I didn't come here to argue with you. I won't." _I can't. _She took a few more steps in, staring at him. No. Past him. Staring at the floor. Staring at anything but him, the look in his eyes. What was it? Why couldn't she read him, the way she used to? The way he could still read her. "Whatever happened, it's over now. We can't change it. Can I just..."

"You weren't here for him. For either of us. What difference does it make now?" he asked, turning to walk off down the hall before waiting for any reply. "It's too late, Abby."

It wouldn't have hurt so much if he hadn't been right. When she had given up, she had failed them both, along with herself. Every fear she'd had about them, about the baby, about ending up alone, he had promised would never happen. All along, he'd had the same fears. How could he be there for her if he admitted it? How could he reassure her? He had never voiced any of it. And in the end, it was her who had consummated all of it and left him alone. The fear had been too much. It had pushed them apart. Stifled them. Mostly her. Luka had come to accept it all, move past it. He had done it before. But she had just dug the trench even deeper. She watched him disappear down the corridor before following after, setting her purse and jacket down along the way. All the while, he said nothing, knowing that she was following. Not exactly sure whether he wanted to stop her in the first place.

"Hey, you. Look who's awake." he spoke the words gently in Croatian as he leaned down to pick up the baby from the crib. "I didn't even know you were up, you're so quiet today."

"Oh, Luka. God, he's so big." She thought the words might choke her. Suffocate her, as everything had done before. It had been so easy to give up and let them both go, and she could hardly stand to see what she had missed. "I can't believe how much he's grown."

"I don't know what you expected. You were gone for seven months." he said simply, surprised at how calm and even his tone seemed to be. "What do you want, Abby? You can't just come back here and expect to fix things."

"That isn't what I'm trying to do. I mean... Look, all I want right now is to see my son. Please."

"We have a different life now, Abby. Joe and I. And you chose not to be in it, you chose to leave. I'm not changing any of it for you. It wouldn't be fair to him. You'll have to wait."

He left it at that, walking past her once more and over to the changing table with the baby cradled against his chest. The baby, who was hardly that anymore. Ten months old- almost eleven. The perpetual mess of bottles was being slowly replaced with little plastic cups and their tops, the swing exchanged for blocks and colorful books with thick pages, and the latest addition to the apartment was the safety gate on the stairs. The weeks until his first birthday would pass too quickly. Luka couldn't help but wonder if Abby would even bother staying long enough to see it; she had already missed too much.


	4. An Amendment

It was never any question, the fact that he had wanted her to be a part of their son's life. It was never any secret that no matter how angry he was, he had missed her every single day of her absence. The actual return, however, was a different story altogether. At first he had wanted to turn her away, feeling just as angry and betrayed as when she had first left. Feeling nothing. The love just wasn't there anymore. But it didn't take long before he remembered the way things used to be and it was all he could do not to ask her to stay there with them and never leave again. It would be too hard. He couldn't. With all of the patience she had, Abby stood there, waiting, watching every move and listening to every word he said to their little boy. He spoke to him a mix of English and Croatian, something that puzzled her, but it flowed in a strange, smooth manner, and Joe seemed to understand as best as anyone possibly could. They settled in the living room, the little one still sleepy from his nap and lying against his father's chest. Abby just stood. It wasn't her home anymore. For a moment, Luka considered simply letting her continue to stand there, letting her feel just as lost and alone as he had when he'd realized that she was gone. After all, she certainly hadn't given him any consideration, too occupied with work and drinking, in the weeks before she had left. It was almost justified, hurting her the way that she had hurt him. It almost felt right. But it was cruel. Luka was not. Not to her. Instead, he motioned for her to sit beside him, unaware that he was watching her as she did so.

"Don't you want to hold him?" No response. Just that look he was so familiar with. Hesitation. "Abby, he's your son."

"Well, he doesn't know that." she spoke the words with some degree of sadness. Almost apologetic. The baby began to cry as she took him in her arms, and she glanced at Luka, almost ready to hand him back.

"He's just hungry." he said in a sympathetic tone, catching the look in her eyes. "Sometimes he wants a bottle after his naps, sometimes he doesn't. Just hold him while I get it."

"Luka." She had never felt so helpless. She had made her own son cry. "I can't."

"Yes you can. Talk to him, it always calms him down." His tone was steady, reassuring. Sad. It was hard to have to tell her what she should already have known. "It's been a long time since he's heard your voice."

For a moment, he couldn't help wondering if she really did want to be a part of their son's life. If she had left, she certainly couldn't have wanted it that badly in the first place. Or maybe she did. Maybe she was just scared. There was no reason to it, no sense, not as far as he knew. As he stood there in the kitchen, preparing the bottle, he looked across the room and watched her. Watched her as she held the little boy they'd once been through so much together for. They had sat together in that room, on that couch, for countless hours. Hours that had dragged on and on. They had picked out cribs and patterns and wallpaper, felt the first flutter of movement, cried while he was sick and once they had brought him home, shared so many moments with that baby in their arms. All in that very spot where she sat, as he watched her from the counter. What did she feel at that moment? Did she still feel the same happiness that he did, looking down at their child? He couldn't help wondering, couldn't help thinking of every possibility, couldn't stop running each and every scenario through his mind. He couldn't. Period. No, it was too much, the thought that maybe, just maybe, she didn't feel for that child the same way he did anymore. That would certainly be the worst possibility of all, for his own son to have to go through the pain later in life of knowing that his mother just didn't care enough. Enough to stay, enough to be there to watch him grow up, enough for what? Luka didn't know, but he didn't want any of them to have to find out. They sat there, together again, quiet for a while as Joe willingly accepted the bottle from his mother. With the first smile she had managed in days, Abby looked over at Luka, completely thrilled, however prematurely, that things had started to go smoothly for she and her son. He stayed silent instead, damning it all to hell. Why did she have to smile at him that way? It made him remember why he'd fallen in love with her. It made him remember all of the good times they'd had. It made his heart ache like nothing else and he couldn't quite tell anymore if the anger was stronger than everything else he still felt for her. Everything else that he always would feel.

"I wish he remembered me." she said, quietly, running a fingertip along the boy's tiny cheek. Her smile had long since faded; she simply didn't feel entitled to that happiness, especially not as she sat there with Luka. "Do you think he does?"

"No." The single word came out shortly, flat and blank. Unforgiving. It had to. He had to reassure himself that he wasn't going to give in so quickly. Yes, the anger was still there. He needed to know for sure. "He remembers his mother. But you're not even the same person anymore, Abby, how could he remember you? I don't even know who you are now."

"Why aren't I the same? Why wouldn't I be? I haven't changed." she spoke before she could realize what she was saying. _Abby, Abby, you never learn. You idiot, you fucking idiot._ It was all wrong. "I mean, I've changed, but not... I'm not the person I was when I left. The person you hated so much, Luka, I'm not her."

"But you're not his mother anymore, either. You don't know when he first stood up, or what was his first word. You don't know, you weren't there." He turned his eyes away from her again. Could she tell? Did she know how much it was killing him? He wasn't sure, but oh, God, how he was trying not to care. Trying to pretend it had nothing to do with his feelings. "You don't even look at him the way you used to. You've changed, Abby. And not just when it comes to him; you're different. I've never known you the way you are now."

"Maybe I haven't changed at all, Luka. Maybe you just never knew me. Maybe you never wanted to." she quipped, her tone even and concise. She could hurt him, too. Watch the anger flare up and see the look in his eyes that she knew meant he had felt it. They had played that game too often. "It doesn't really matter now, does it?"

"What is that supposed to mean? You think it's all been a game, or something? Don't you tell me what's important. Don't. Not you, of all the goddamn people in the world. You don't have any right to say what does and doesn't matter to me. Not at all. Seriously, Abby, what the hell does that mean?"

"It means, you wanted a baby, you got it. What difference does this make to you? What difference do I make? God, Luka, you should be so fucking lucky to get the easy way out. No commitment. No mess, no fucked-up Abby to put up with, isn't that what you wanted the whole time? Get rid of the burden, get the kid you wanted so badly and even get to walk away looking like some kind of saint. Well, congratulations. You win. You were always right and I was always just one of the annoying details."

"I never thought that! I never--- God, fuck you. Just, really, fuck you if you can think for a second that that's what I wanted." he said, almost surprised himself to hear the words. For a moment, he clenched his fists. Yet as he spoke he caught a glimpse of their little boy, who was leaning back in his mother's arms to look at him, and lowered his voice as he continued. "You can't make what you did any better by blaming me, not even a little bit. Yeah, Joe is the only good thing that came of this in the end. But I wanted the rest of it so much back then. Even when you started fucking everything up, I wanted it. And I loved you and I wanted you, and you-- you just... you had no idea how much."

"But you don't anymore." she said. He couldn't, could he? Couldn't love her anymore after what she'd done. He hadn't planned to say so much; she could tell by the way he faltered towards the end. And it was her turn. She was almost sick at the thought of him knowing how she still felt. How she always had. Yet the words kept coming. "You don't, you know, love me. You don't want to be with me anymore, now."

"I don't anymore." He spoke simply. Reached out to take the empty bottle and take Joe in his arms. The little one pulled up to stand on his father's lap. Smiling, laughing, leaning in to place a wet kiss on his cheek. Luka returned the boy's smile, leaning in until their noses touched. Everything was right again, for a moment. "You remember that lady? Hm? That's Mama. That's your mother, Joe. She came to see you."

"He doesn't speak yet?" she asked, watching them, understanding little of what Luka had said to the boy and none of the reply. "Doesn't he know any words?"

"Sure he does. He just doesn't always get them right. No sentences or anything yet. But I know, right, Joe? We manage to figure each other out. He understands you, you know. Likes to pretend he doesn't, but he's just stubborn with English sometimes, since I don't speak very much of it to him. The nanny does, though."

Little things like that made him so upset all over again. Bitter, almost. It would've been her job. He worried that his English wasn't good enough, that he shouldn't teach Joe for fear of teaching him incorrectly. Abby would speak English, Luka would speak Croatian, they'd agreed. They had spent so many nights discussing those things. Nights while she was pregnant and couldn't sleep. Nights when he would find himself in the kitchen cooking for her at some ridiculous hour, or out driving to the grocery store for some absolutely repulsive item. She would call him right as he was walking down the first aisle. One thing would turn into two. Into three, into four. Do they have this? Can you find that? Endless questions, in between apologies for asking him to go out so late. The trunk would be half-full as he put the bags away afterwards. And Abby would stay on the phone until he was home again. Just in case, or so she had said. In case of what, neither were sure. But to her, it had sounded better than admitting she just wanted to hear his voice. They'd never been so close before as they were during her pregnancy. They would sit on the floor in the bathroom during the early weeks, his accent heavier than usual when he was tired, as he spoke to her. Pushed long strands of hair away from her face, rested a hand on her back. 'You should go. Go to bed, Luka.' she would insist, miserably, looking at the toilet, 'It's late, get some sleep.' But he would reach for her hand and tell her quite simply, 'No, no. I'll stay.' He worried too much to be able to sleep during nights like that. She knew it, yet they had the same conversation every time. She wanted to know that he would be there. He always was.

"Listen, Abby, if you want to..." _Stay. Stay here, forever, if you want to_. It was only as she looked up at him, waiting, that he realized how long he'd paused and tossed those words around in his head. It was too soon. Maybe, maybe. But not at that moment. "I was going to take him to the park tomorrow, as long as the weather is alright. You could come, if you want to."

Luka Kovac was in way over his head.


	5. Fear Of Sleep

Something about the way she kissed him was still overwhelming. Perhaps it was how she leaned in against him. How she let her tiny frame press against his. Just slightly, just for a moment. It could have been an accident. He knew that it wasn't. She kissed him and he knew the time for questions and doubts had passed. Because he couldn't find it in him to consider such things any longer. Because his lips were bruised and sore from the force of hers against them. It made him want and need. Made him lose whatever control he had convinced himself that he still possessed. It made his whole body ache, the sheer intensity of it all. There was no room left for waiting. Before he knew it, his hands were on her and hers on him. Buttons and clasps being undone, flesh exposed. Fingertips deftly sweeping across her bare skin. Her lips pressed to his neck, the last of their clothing falling to the floor. She allowed him that moment. Allowed him to get caught in the recklessness of what they were doing, to forget their qualms, if only for those seconds. Another kiss here, a brief touch there. For a moment he thought he could hear it- his heart beating wildly, arrhythmically, as if threatening to leap out of his chest. Warning him of the danger of what they were about to do. But it was the dizzying, mad rush and whirl of it all that was pounding in his ears. Every sensation, every taste. The smell of soap and cigarettes and perfume that still lingered on her. The feel of her skin, soft and smooth. Warm against his palms as he explored her body, taking everything in. Things he thought he would never know again. His hands on the small of her back, pulling her towards him. She could feel him pressing against her, making her shiver unwittingly. And he was absolutely vulnerable, in a way it seemed he hadn't felt in years. Completely exposed, in every way a person ever could be. Neither knew when or how they had ended up on the bed, but there they were. It seemed new and familiar all at once. Comforting. Terrifying. She clung to his shoulders, pulling him closer. Feeling his weight against her. Feeling him touching her, feeling him inside of her, deeper and deeper. Suddenly, she was unsure. Her hands came to rest on his chest as she looked up at him. Stopping him. Hesitating.

"Abby." He spoke in barely a whisper. Forced the words out, unwilling to let slip the low moan that rose in the back of his throat. "Trebam te."

He knew. He knew that she didn't understand. The sentiment, yes, perhaps. Hopefully. The urgency might have been there, but of that, he was unsure. Many times before, he had spoken to her in his native tongue, never giving in when she would ask what it meant. That way, he could say anything. It felt safe. The one and only thing that was still his when they were together, and he needed it. He hung onto it, because he had always been just as afraid as she was. He didn't want to be anymore. _Just say it. Say it again, get it right._ Why couldn't he do it? Why couldn't he make her understand the importance of it all? Luka wasn't completely sure that he understood it himself. That, he realized, was a good deal of the problem.

"I need you. Please. Abby, please. I need you."

She had needed to hear it. Needed to know that he wanted it the way she did. That he wanted _her_, needed her the way she needed him. That he hadn't meant what he said before, he hadn't meant it when he said he was done with her. With them. If he had, nothing mattered. It would have meant that they had both wasted their breath on every word they had ever said to each other, and that their relationship had always been little more than a lie. One she had lived and loved and wanted more than she ever thought possible. One she had felt the loss of. But a lie all the same. There had been too many of those in the last weeks when they had been together. Longer than that, maybe. She didn't know. It didn't matter. That time was over and she didn't want to dwell. Abby wrapped her arms around him, pressing her body to his, and allowed him to take her again.

"I'm here. I'm right here."

As he pulled himself up from the bed, peeling off the damp t-shirt that clung to his skin, Luka felt dirty. Inexplicably dirty. Filthy, even. The clock showed 5:42 and it would be some time before Joe would wake, but he stumbled through the dark room anyway. Headed for the bathroom, fumbled with the faucet. Hoping all the while that a shower would wash away the lingering feeling of her hands on him that he couldn't seem to ignore. The water was so hot that it turned his skin red. Left every surface in the room covered in steam. His stomach was in knots, his head spinning with the realism of the dream that had disturbed his sleep every night since the day she had returned. It had been almost a week. But it wasn't the dream itself that would wake him. It was the way he felt so empty realizing she wasn't there. The way he could swear that the scent of her and the Hanae Mori perfume she wore was on his sheets. It was knowing that all of it was possible, remembering the night it had happened. That night, logic had failed him. If there was one thing he couldn't bear, it was seeing her cry. Seeing her in pain. She had felt like such a failure. Blamed him for it. Blamed Clemente, blamed the man who had taken the little girl. Blamed herself, mostly. It made him feel as if he might just dissolve into tears as well, seeing her that way. Made him hurt in the same way she did. And suddenly he had walked across the room and his lips were pressed to hers and she thought she might lose her breath. He was hardly aware of what he had done until after it was over. Until she was looking up at him, confused, caught off-guard. Out of nowhere, he was unusually self-conscious. It had been years, yet he wanted her so badly. Had she leaned in, reciprocated, lessened the space between them as he had kissed her? He wasn't sure if she had, or if he'd only imagined it. Wished for it.

Of course she had wanted it too. The moment he'd taken her face in his hands, she had known what would come next. That part was simple enough. She had even done some wishing of her own. Her head tilted back somewhat and she waited. Those seconds had felt like hours. Finally. Finally, he was kissing her again after so long. As her eyes locked on his, she tried to read him. But she couldn't determine why he had done it. The room was silent. His face was flushed, red with embarrassment over what he had done. Only when she leaned in again did it subside, replaced with the thought that maybe, just maybe, she had spent all those years missing him. Those years that he had missed her, no matter how hard he had tried not to. He had wondered, yet she had known where he stood all along. Ever since the Christmas party at Susan's, when he had told her. 'I miss you, Abby.' He couldn't remember it, he'd had too much to drink. An utter lie. He knew; he was mortified. If he had known how her breath had hitched in her throat as he ran his hand along her arm, he wouldn't have been. There they were again, but she couldn't walk away. She couldn't hide behind excuses, or alcohol, or Carter. Didn't want to try. Instead, she leaned in to kiss him. They fumbled their way to his bedroom somehow. The in-between was lost. He was gentle with her, in a way that had surprised her when they first were together. And he told her that he needed her, although he hadn't realized just how much. Or maybe he didn't want to admit it, not to her or to himself. That night, he had started out thinking that he was comforting her. She was doing the same for him without even knowing it. He was tired of missing her, of being alone. Tired of feeling alone even when he wasn't. With Gillian, with Sam, with women whose names and faces he had long since forgotten.

It scared him, admitting to himself just how much he wanted it to be real, if only once more. Even though he hadn't let go of their past, even though they could hardly speak. The time they had been spending together in those past days, he had kept to the background, save for their arguments, while she had played with Joe. Yet he contemplated it while he dressed, just like he had done every other morning. Weighed the pros and cons as he stood in the kitchen, making coffee. He sat on the couch, flipping the channels on the television, hoping he would find something sufficiently distracting. No such luck. Luka knew what would come of it if they were to be together again. The way everything that happened, everything that came afterwards, would break his heart. Just like before. Not Joe, not the things they had tried so hard for. Those things, he would do all over again, given a choice. But the fights, the lies, the way everything had fallen apart- no, imploded. There was too much tension and pressure behind it all to refer to it any less violently. The way it had all gone wrong, it would have been a devastating thing to endure again.

"Shit. Jesus Christ." he cursed out loud as the phone rang, startled back into reality as he reached to pick it up. Waited to see if it had woken the baby. "Hello?"

"Luka, it's me. It's Abby." she said, immediately wishing she hadn't stated such an obvious fact. He knew her voice. "We need to talk."

"It's a little bit early, you know. Not really the best time for this." he spoke, suppressing a yawn. The truth was that he couldn't think straight yet, let alone carry on a conversation.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." The line went silent. He didn't respond. "Did I? What about Joe, is he sleeping?"

As much as she might have meant well, her questions only managed to upset him. All of that concern and sincerity. The tone of her voice, the way she genuinely seemed to care not only about their son, but about him. Seven months too late. It made him want to cry. It made him want to scream at her. To tell her that he would never, ever forgive her or let her anywhere near _his _son again. To ask her how she could be such a horrible person and how she could possibly have left them, regardless of what had happened. But he wouldn't do any of it. Thinking it had been enough. He didn't dare show anything but indifference or anger towards her. He would rather have died, right then and there, than cry in front of her. Rather than letting her know how much she had hurt him. Once, he had grown comfortable with the strength and depth of everything she could make him feel. The good and the bad and everything in between. Not anymore. Especially not things like that. It made him uneasy to realize, though it was not the first time he had done so, that she could still evoke such emotion in him.

"Don't worry about Joe, it's my job to do that. What do you want, Abby?"

"Stop that! I thought we weren't going to fight anymore. God, Luka."

"What to do you _want_, Abby?" he asked again, impatient. Placing such emphasis on the words that he practically spat them out. "It's early and I'm tired still, I don't want to have this conversation. Hurry up and say whatever it is that you have to say."

"We need to talk and we need to do it alone. Because of this, you know?" Her voice wavered. All at once, her confidence was gone. "We just argue every time and we don't need to get into screaming matches in front of our son."

"And what do you expect me to do, just leave him alone and run off? It's not like there's anyone else here to take care of him." He hoped that it hurt her. He wanted it to, so badly. But he felt guilty for it already. "You can't expect me to always be around for you. Not anymore."

"Well, you're the better one here, remember? The good one." she spoke, sarcastically. Bitterly. She hated how much truth there was to it. "I'm sure you can figure something out if you try to. I'll be at the hotel all day, just meet me there once you've taken care of things."

Silently, he set the receiver down, hanging up the phone. And she couldn't help but remember a time when he never would have done so without saying he loved her, let alone without saying goodbye.


End file.
